


hold on (baby you're losing it)

by thegirl



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Oh god help me, Prose Poem, please please help me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5150189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl/pseuds/thegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PS: I know you’ll never read this, but I want someone to. God, I do. I am screaming out to the world, but my voice is just coming back to me, over and over, a terrible echo, and I am alone. </p>
<p>PPS: This is the only cry for help I will give. It feels like a whimper. I remember, back before all this, I was a firestorm. I was a bang. I am now no more than a shadow of what I once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold on (baby you're losing it)

Dear Miss,

 

I know this will never reach you, but I think I need to write to you anyway. The depression has gotten much worse, I never realized just how bad it could get before, I thought it was the worst it could be then. I was wrong – I want to die. I want to die in some tragic accident that will make everyone cry and think about me and I won’t have to be around anymore. I want to see everything I am and ever was die with me. I want to disappear, or go into a coma and sleep for a year, I want to not care anymore and have some excuse other than that I hate my very being to miss a year of school. I want to cut myself and hurt myself because I deserve to hurt, and I think it would feel like a dream. I dream about it. I dream about cutting, and cutting, cutting myself away until there is nothing left to hate.

I’ve had a haircut. Everyone says how nice it looks, and tells me it lifts my face. I’ve started wearing eyeliner too, but I can’t escape from the face in the mirror and the bubble of guilt in my gut that never goes away. I hate myself. I want to cut my hair shorter. I can’t sleep at night anymore because I move around but the little short hairs prick into my scalp if they go the wrong way on the pillow, and I am so tired even if I do sleep. I am so tired all the time. I want to sleep the way I used to. I want to sleep for a week and not have to care about missing anything or catching up. I want the world to slow down to a crawl and let me curl up under a magnolia tree.

Other days, I want to shake myself out of it. I do. I want to be glorious, I want to be bigger and better than I ever was before. I want to start sports, and start dancing and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, cause I’ve been told it’s a quick way to die but it’s not considered suicide. I want to hold tea parties and laugh at everything and never get hurt or feel anything except victory, because I will have won. I will have won the game that everyone except me is always playing. I want to fall in love with somebody who will only touch me when I want to be touched, who will only say they love me when I feel comfortable. I want to be comforted and I want to be held, but I hate depending on others to do things I should be able to do myself.

Most days, I am afraid of leaving my house. Even stepping into the garden. Most days, I will stand on the edge of a steep, steep cliff as I try not to think about stepping into the car and going to school, because if I think about it I won't be able to, and if I don’t my mum will shout and then she’ll cry and my dad will shout and then maybe cry if I can’t see him and tell everyone that I am broken. That is his threat. If I stop working, if I run down, if I clog up, then he will tell everyone. I will be the shattered girl forever, and I’ll never escape from it. I’ll be the depressed cousin when I am eighty. My grandmothers will get upset but won’t understand and I will scream and scream and scream and nothing will happen. Most days, I am afraid of the shower. I am afraid of tight spaces. I am afraid of being too imposing now, like I never worried before.

The girl you knew is dead now, but you’re the only one who ever understood. All my poetry is sad now, when I can even write at all. I wanted to be you, once. I still do. I want to go to university and have a boyfriend and be strong enough not to care about side eyes, I want to get over this and live in a safe, warm house that stays lit up at night. I want to live, so badly and desperately, and yet, I want to die.

 

PS: I know you’ll never read this, but I want someone to. God, I do. I am screaming out to the world, but my voice is just coming back to me, over and over, a terrible echo, and I am alone.

PPS: This is the only cry for help I will give. It feels like a whimper. I remember, back before all this, I was a firestorm. I was a bang. I am now no more than a shadow of what I once was.


End file.
